Going Home
by Tom's Mum
Summary: Set towards the end of Episode 8, Series 2


He sat staring at the space the other side of the table which had recently been occupied by the not inconsiderable bulk of the Commissioner, hardly conscious of the noisy celebrations still going on a couple of yards away – the clink of bottles, the relieved laughter that Fidel had finally won his promotion. He must have looked as stunned as he felt as he suddenly became aware of a flash of vermilion as Camille slid gracefully into the seat opposite him. From the couple of glances he had shot at her he had been aware of her growing interest in what the Commissioner was saying to him. When the older man got up to leave he had turned to look at her, not realising perhaps how much of an open invitation was printed on his face. So here she was, looking at him enquiringly her head titled like a bird, waiting for him to fill her in.

"I think he just said I'm going back to London for a few days."

She smiled encouragingly, then shrugged uncomprehendingly at his blank, emotionless face.

* * *

She had driven him home, as he had only an hour to pack and get ready, and he had been stuffing clothes into his old brown wheelie suitcase ever since. For some reason he felt unnerved, on edge. He knew he should feel over the moon at the chance of getting back to London, even for a few days, but in fact he felt strangely deflated. "That would be great, Sir. Wow." he had said to the Commissioner, but he didn't really feel Wow at the moment. He reminded himself of all the familiar joys that lay ahead of him: red buses, shiny black cabs, the Underground, shopping malls, supermarkets (with chicken in cellophane, not invading his house), pubs, tea with proper milk, high streets without wandering goats, air conditioning that worked. And above all so many people bustling about their business that he could easily lose himself in the crowd, where no-one would bother him, where he would be left alone to get on with sort of life he had led for the past 20 years or so.

So why didn't he feel more elated? Was it the prospect of spending a 10-hour flight handcuffed to a sulky young murderess, unable to take his eyes off her for a minute in the light of what had happened the last time he was on escort duty? No, it would be tedious, but he had endured much worse in his time. Was it the fact that he had so little time to get ready? It was true that he was not a man who liked to be rushed: he preferred to plan and prepare well in advance. When going on a trip he would normally make a long list of everything he needed to pack, at least a week beforehand and would collect everything up in a neat pile, ready to be carefully arranged in his case. Today he didn't have that luxury, and he was flustered, picking things up and putting them down again, unable to make up his mind.

He called to Camille, lounging on the veranda bottle in hand, the cicadas and birds chirping in the background. It occurred to him fleetingly that she was being very quiet and subdued: quite unlike her normal self. He tried for a tone of jollity but was aware of a note of desperation creeping into his voice.

"I tell you, it's a job to know what to pack. It'll be winter over there, you know. I checked the weather – overcast, four degrees." He gave a manic little laugh. "It's not even that cold in my fridge!" She didn't laugh at the joke.

In quick succession he brought out onto the veranda the suitcase (rather the worse for wear since being dragged all along the beach when he arrived), his briefcase, a coat (never worn on the island) and his passport, boarding pass and phone.

"But you'll be back on Friday."

Yes. He would be back on Friday. Unless he changed his mind. Unless he decided to stay. Unless he came to the conclusion that not coming back would be the best solution to the problem which had been growing and nagging at him insidiously for months. The problem that was looking at him now with a hint of sadness in the liquid brown eyes. It was quite out of the question, of course. He was a man of principle and her superior officer to boot; any kind of personal relationship with a subordinate would be against all the rules and would land both of them in serious trouble. Not that he thought for a minute that Camille would even contemplate it; he was too used to women being turned off by him for it even to be a possibility. But that didn't stop the wanting, the erotically charged dreams, the wayward trains of thought which so disrupted his life these days and so affected his ability to concentrate on his work. Not coming back would solve all that, of course – well, perhaps not _solve_ it exactly but at least he would not have to face her every day, have to sit with her in the Defender, have to interview witnesses and suspects with her, have to sit opposite her in the office trying not to stare at her long legs encased in tight jeans or a tight skirt or even worse in the shortest of shorts and the skimpy tops which left very little to the imagination. He didn't think anyone had yet noticed his obsession. Most of the time he kept himself well under control. Most of the time.

No-one would be surprised if he decided to stay in London: after all, he had complained unceasingly ever since he had arrived on the island. In fact, the complaining had of late become very much a ritual. In the beginning it had been genuine – he had been in such a state of culture shock and there was nothing on Saint-Marie that had not seemed alien to him. Little by little, however, he had got used to it and many of the things that had so irritated him at the start no longer really bothered him. But by now he was known as an eccentric – the man who didn't (or wouldn't) fit in, the man who complained about everything, and it was just easier to play along to people's expectations. So he continued to complain and to rant – sometimes genuinely but more often just because it had become a habit. The one thing he had really not come to terms with was the heat and, more crucially, the humidity which sometimes drained the very life from his bones. A little whisper in his brain told him that it was partly his own fault for refusing to wear more sensible clothing. But he had needed those clothes at the beginning. He had felt so lost and lacking in confidence, though he covered it well with bluster, that the clothes he wore to work in London reminded him that he was a detective with the Metropolitan Police, who deserved respect from everyone he encountered. He had stuck rigidly to this principle, even though he knew it was ridiculous to wear wool in the tropics, and now he couldn't really see a way of backing down without appearing to lose face. So he continued to expire whenever the temperature hit 30 degrees, which was most of the time.

"But you'll be back on Friday."

Camille's question jolted him from his thoughts. A good opportunity to prepare the ground was presenting itself. He picked up the jumper he was taking on board and folded and refolded it several times.

"Yeah, that's the plan. Of course, things might change. I'm not saying they will but, you know, being here wasn't really the plan, was it, not exactly – it just sort of happened. One minute I was in Croydon and the next …" He gave a little laugh, and trailed off, acutely aware that she was not smiling, afraid that he had upset her once again. She heaved a sigh and looked down, refusing for once to meet his eyes. He couldn't bear her to think that he couldn't wait to get away from the island, though he had been saying as much from the first day his plane had landed.

"I mean not that I haven't loved it, you know – I have, and you …" _Dangerous territory, Poole. _"Well, _all_ of you, you know, the gang. I've loved _every_ minute of it." He was getting increasingly incoherent in his attempt to be sincere, miserably aware that he was not succeeding very well. He ploughed doggedly on. "Well, maybe not every minute, you know. In the main. Anyway, it's only until Friday, … probably. No need for big good-byes." God, he was making a mess of this, and she was not looking any happier. It was all so awkward. It was always awkward, with him. What else could he say? He needed a safe topic.

"Oh actually I will need someone to look after Harry."

"Harry?"

"Yeah, my lizard." For the first time, she smiled. He continued defensively. " Well I had to give him a name, didn't I? I couldn't just keep calling him Lizard."

"Only you could call a lizard Harry."

"Yeah, well it was in the paper when I was trying to think of a name. Prince Harry. I think he looks quite like him." He went inside to the fruit bowl and brought out a mango. "He likes fruit, you know. Well, mangoes and, um, any bugs you can catch, you know." _He must not keep saying 'You know'_. She wasn't responding to anything he said. In his desperation he resorted to miming the operation. "He sort of likes it best if you mash the bugs up in the fruit." Still no response. He threw his hands up in the air in a casual gesture, then wished he hadn't. "No big deal – a couple of times a day. Well, in the morning at 8 and again at 6."

He could sense her rising irritation as she interrupted him before he could give yet more details.

"Don't worry, I'll take care of your lizard."

She said it flatly, drawing the conversation to an end with a note of finality. There was an awkward pause. He tried to figure out what was wrong with Camille, why she was behaving in such a subdued and unusual manner. He had never been any good at understanding women's minds, as he had told her on more than one occasion, and this was no exception. As far as he could see he had not done or said anything which might have upset her. For the life of him he really could not tell what was wrong but it clear that she was far from happy. Well, they couldn't stand here just staring at each other. His eye seized on a bottle of beer standing open on the little veranda table, and he gave a very nervous and strained laugh.

"Ah, beer – just what I need." He certainly did need it, and took a long slug.

When it came, it was completely out of the blue and it knocked him for six.

"You won't come back, will you?" She looked straight at him, and the sadness in her eyes made his heart leap. He was caught completely off guard. It was uncanny, that ability she had to read his thoughts, and decidedly uncomfortable. She had articulated precisely what he had been contemplating but he was not yet ready to admit it. He shot a quick look at her. Under her troubled gaze his voice shook and he stammered slightly.

"Yeah, of course I will." He sounded less than convincing.

"No you won't. You'll get home. It will be cold and raining and you'll have a pint of beer in your pub and you'll want to stay there."

Was it possible she would be genuinely sorry if he didn't return? It seemed very unlikely but … Well, at least she hadn't guessed the real reason. He opened his mouth to reply but was interrupted by the arrival of Fidel and Dwayne. The atmosphere was instantly broken.

"All packed, Chief?"

He was seriously flustered now, unable to switch quickly enough from the raw emotion of the conversation with Camille to the exigencies of the present. They were just trying to be helpful, he knew, but if only they had not arrived at that particular moment. He frantically tried to compose himself.

"Yes, well, I mean, not very much to, um … It's only a few days."

"It won't be the same without you, Sir." This from Fidel nearly unmanned him completely. None of his work colleagues had ever said that to him before. No-one had ever missed him. He was perfectly well aware that the Croydon lot had in fact thrown a party _after_ his departure. He felt ridiculously emotional. The car horn saved him.

"Oh gosh, there's my car", he cried, picking up his case, bag and coat. "Yeah, coming!" And he started to walk towards the taxi.

"I'd better take that, Chief" said Dwayne, stowing his case in the boot.

From the corner of his eye he caught sight of movement on the veranda. Camille had picked up the passport, ticket and phone which he had left on the table and was waving them at him, with a resigned smile on her face. He took them, holding her in his gaze for a moment, then loped off to the car.

"Hold on!" He opened the door and threw his coat and briefcase onto the backseat, then turned to face the three members of his team, who had lined up to see him off. The Commissioner had commented that he had quite a team and he had wholeheartedly agreed: he was inordinately proud of them all and of the work they had done together, their various strengths and weaknesses balancing each other out. Their success rate was testament to that. But this was going to be a lot more difficult than he had bargained for.

"Right."

"So we'll see you on Friday, Sir."

"Yep. Absolutely." Fidel offered his hand then, hesitating slightly, stepped forward and put an arm round the Inspector in a rather awkward hug. Richard stood rigid, arms like ramrods by his sides.

He pressed his lips tightly together and gave a half-nod. He was still in control. Just.

"Safe flight, Chief." No hugs from Dwayne, just a firm handshake. That just left Camille. He had absolutely no idea how she was going to behave or how he should react. He tensed instinctively.

She took a deep breath, set her shoulders, stepped forward and kissed him quickly on the cheek. It was only a peck, really, over in a second or so, but it felt as if an electric current had shot through his body. Then suddenly she flung her arms around his chest, clung to him momentarily and delivered three or four pats on his back.

Again, he stood rigid, afraid to respond. If Dwayne and Fidel hadn't been there then perhaps he would have found the courage to hug her back. But then perhaps it was just as well that they _were _there.

He had never experienced anything like it and it left him in a state of serious shock. He simply couldn't trust himself. He turned from her immediately and got into the safety of the taxi without saying a word or even looking at her. He felt ridiculously close to tears. He could still feel her lips on his cheek, her body pressed close to his, the scent of her perfume. His heart was hammering and he wondered if his cheeks revealed the hot flush that had swept through his body. He was in serious turmoil, churning with conflicting emotions. The car started to move. He knew he needed to say something, and tried for a note of jocularity, hoping it did not sound too forced or desperate. Leaning out of the window he called out to them.

"Back before you know it."

Too right he would be. To hell with principles.


End file.
